Hook Shot (Hoops #3)(93)
“Or maybe it’s Lotus you miss,” August continues, “not the city.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” I mutter. “Punk ass.”
“I would like to know, actually.” He stops dribbling and crosses the small space on court that separates us. “Tell me what’s up with you and Lo. Why are you holding out on me?”
Because I’m having too much fun torturing him.
“You know we’re dating,” I say, disguising my amusement with a blank expression. “Isn’t that enough? Next you’ll want to go to the bathroom with me and have sleepovers and shit. Why are you in our business so hard?”
“She’s like a little sister to Iris, Glad,” August says, no sign of levity in the gray eyes under his flop of dark curls. “To me, too, and I just need to be sure she’s okay and you won’t . . .”
He shrugs, glancing to the side, looking uncomfortable.
“I won’t hurt her,” I assure him, trapping the basketball between my hip and my arm. “I care too much about her.”
Surprise stretches his eyes before he recovers. “Aight. That’s all I wanted to know.”
“Lotus hasn’t told Iris anything either?” I ask, resuming the cross pattern of dribbling.
“A little.” He starts his double-dribble again, too. “She says you guys are together, but hasn’t given much detail. To be honest, Iris is so preoccupied with the baby coming, she hasn’t dug as much as she usually would.”
“So you’re digging for her?” I ask, cocking one brow.
“Something like that.” He flashes a grin. “I mean, some dirty old man is after my wife’s young cousin. It’s my duty to investigate.”
“I wondered when the old man jokes would start,” I say, laughing and shaking my head.
“Expect more of those,” he laughs.
“You guys got a secret, or would you like to share with the rest of the class?” our new coach yells from the other end of the court.
He’s not exactly new. He’s our former assistant coach, Ean Jagger. Coach Kemp, who has led the Waves since we started as an expansion team a few years ago, is battling prostate cancer. Of course, we wish him the best and want him to get better, but it’s also exciting to have such a young, brilliant mind at the helm this season. With his reputation as a master strategist and his off-the-charts basketball IQ, Ean could have any job in the league. We’re grateful, and slightly confused as to why he stayed with an expansion team with no hopes of making the playoffs its first four seasons.
But we’ll take it.
“No secret, Coach,” I reply. “I’m having the sex talk with Rook here. He wasn’t sure how his wife ended up pregnant. I was explaining where everything goes.”
The team laughs, and I have to stop dribbling and bend over laughing myself at the look August levels at me.
“Wow,” Ean says, taking his time crossing the court to reach us. “I expected more from the team captain.”
August is the franchise player and the future of the team, but he’s only got a few seasons under his belt. They brought me in because of my reputation for discipline, my on-and off-court leadership, and because of my two championship rings. I know how to win. All attributes they’re hoping I can pass on to my younger teammates, especially August.
“Since you and West seem to have so much to chat about,” Ean says once he’s standing right in front of us, “let’s see if you can climb and talk at the same time.”
August groans, and I’m with him. Nobody likes climbing the rope. It’s old school and not one of our standard drills anymore. But that is part of what makes Ean so coveted. He’s a great blend of old-school sensibility and cutting-edge innovation.
“I hope you kept in shape over the summer break, old man,” August jibes as we head for the two ropes hanging at the far end of the court.
“Summer break?” I ask blithely. “What’s a summer break? I think I heard about those. Maybe I’ll take one some day.”
“Apparently, this isn’t the best way to shut down the chatter,” Ean says dryly, “since both of you are still running your damn mouths. Go at the whistle. Touch top and mat. Touch top and mat again.”
“Shit,” August mumbles. “Last time I’m talking to you during drills, Glad.”
“Well that’s one bright spot.” I give him a dead face and curl my hands around the rope.
I’m gonna smoke his ass.
The whistle blows.
August is out of the gate like a thoroughbred, racing up and inches above me. I pace myself, but never let him get too far ahead. No way I’m letting this kid show me up.
He’s still slightly in the lead when we touch the mat and start back up for the second climb. That’s when I make my move, digging deep for a burst of speed I keep in reserve. I’ve also got nearly three inches in height, six inches in wingspan and a good fifty pounds of muscle over him. My reach is longer, and I pull myself up higher with less effort. I tap the top and start back down milliseconds before he does. When my feet touch the mat half a breath before his do, I’m relieved I held my ground. I’m the guy with the rings. I’m the team captain, but in this league, you’re never done proving yourself.